The morning sun spilled across the Kapoor residence, brushing the marble floors with golden streaks. It was the first day that Aarav and Ishita were expected to meet—not formally, not for proposals or family gatherings, but in the quiet, inevitable reality of living under the same roof.
Ishita stepped into the living room, her red kurta flowing elegantly, her hair tied loosely to keep it off her face. She had rehearsed her posture, her tone, her expressions in front of the mirror at least three times that morning. She was determined to stay calm, detached, polite. Nothing more.
Aarav, already seated on the sofa, glanced up from the morning paper. He noted her entrance without much expression, though a faint tightening around his jaw betrayed his awareness of her presence. He had promised himself boundaries, control, distance. That would not change.
"Good morning," Ishita said, voice careful, measured.
"Morning," Aarav replied curtly, returning to his paper. He didn't look at her again.
Ishita raised a brow but kept her composure. Polite. Detached. I can do this.
She moved to the kitchen to prepare her tea—herself, not the servants—determined to avoid any "accidental" conversations with her husband. Aarav, on the other hand, had already decided he would not engage unless absolutely necessary.
The morning progressed in quiet tension. They passed each other in the hall, barely acknowledging the other, their eyes flicking only briefly before darting away. Every step, every glance, was a silent war of control and composure.
But boundaries are rarely so easily maintained.
The first crack came when the living room door slammed accidentally—Aarav's frustration at a stubborn drawer he had tried to open. Ishita, walking past, barely managed to stop herself from raising an eyebrow.
"You might want to… try it from the other side," she said, tone polite but laced with subtle amusement.
Aarav looked up, slightly startled. "Excuse me?"
"You know… the drawer," she repeated, voice soft. "It opens more easily if you… pull from here."
He stared at her, expression unreadable. "I can manage."
"Clearly," she muttered under her breath.
The tension in the room could have been sliced with a knife. And yet, in that moment, both of them felt it: a tiny, unspoken acknowledgment of each other's presence.
Later, during breakfast, the situation escalated. Aarav poured his coffee in silence, while Ishita sipped her tea, watching him carefully. Their eyes met, and instead of looking away, she held his gaze just a little too long. He frowned but didn't look away either.
"You drink your coffee like it's a strategy," she said, smirking faintly.
"I drink my coffee like it's coffee," he replied evenly, but the corner of his mouth betrayed the hint of a smile he refused to let show fully.
Silence fell again, broken only by the clink of spoons against porcelain. Neither wanted to admit it, but there was… something. A curiosity, a subtle spark of intrigue that neither would acknowledge.
The day continued with careful choreography. Ishita moved about the house, attending to her own tasks, while Aarav focused on his work, pretending their cohabitation was simply a matter of logistics. Yet, everywhere they went, the invisible thread of tension followed—at meals, in hallways, even in the quiet corners of the garden.
By late afternoon, Ishita found herself in the garden, enjoying the sunlight and the rare moment of peace. Aarav stepped out moments later, ostensibly to check the mail, but reality was simple: he didn't want her to feel like he was ignoring her completely.
They stood a few feet apart, awkward silence stretching between them. Ishita fiddled with the hem of her kurta. Aarav adjusted his cufflinks.
"I suppose," Ishita began cautiously, "we should discuss our boundaries… again. Just to be clear."
Aarav's eyebrows lifted, a faint spark of amusement in his eyes. "Are we going to make a habit of this?"
"I like habits," she said lightly. "As long as they involve minimal emotional interference."
"Agreed," he said. "Minimal is… best."
They exchanged a brief, pointed glance, both understanding: it was a tentative truce, a contract of cold civility. And yet, both were aware of the tiny pulse of something unspoken—a flicker of intrigue, of tension that was almost… magnetic.
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the garden. Aarav turned to leave, but stopped. "Ishita?"
"Yes?" she replied, cautiously hopeful that he wouldn't ask the impossible.
"Do not mistake my civility for… friendliness," he said quietly. "I am not interested in… unnecessary attachments."
"I wouldn't dream of it," she replied, voice steady, though her heart thudded just a little faster.
And with that, he walked away, leaving her alone with the echo of his words—and the faint, undeniable pull of curiosity that she refused to admit.
That night, as they both lay in their separate rooms, their thoughts were surprisingly aligned: boundaries were necessary, yes—but something… dangerous and unfamiliar was beginning to form between them.
Neither would admit it. Not yet.
But the first seed of attraction had been planted, and with it came the faintest tremor of anticipation—for laughter, for tension, for a story neither of them had expected to be part of.